


From Horrors And Love

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Past, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, M/M, Mentions Of Other Holmes Characters, Mild Smut, Mystery, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 16:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20491478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A group of tourists hears the tragic story of 221B Baker Street.





	From Horrors And Love

### 221B Baker Street

“Well, here we are. The famous address of the most famous detective of all times…”

“Did they wash off the blood at all?” one member of the group of tourists joked.

The guide, a tall, slim student named David, gave him a stern look. “Of course they did. So… Care to hear the story?”

“Yes!” came from two dozen mouths.

“All right, let's go upstairs. In the flat over there, 221A, lived their landlady, Mrs Martha Hudson. She was not their housekeeper but she adored them and we can be sure she took good care of them.”

“Is she dead, too?” a blonde woman asked.

“No. She moved out after the events, living with her sister now in North England.” She was a very old lady now and probably she would be gone soon. David wondered what they would do with the house then.

“The poor old woman. I've read she liked them very much.”

David rubbed his nose. “Yeah. She was devastated and said she couldn’t live here anymore. Upstairs now, folks.”

The mostly young people followed him to the flat that had belonged to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. David explained that the doctor had lived elsewhere for some time but had come back with his young daughter a few months after his wife had died.

They gathered in the biggest room of the flat – the living room.

Everything looked like it had when Sherlock and John had been living here, working here on cases together. Mrs Hudson still owned the house and she hadn't been willing to let anyone else live here even though there had been many offers so it had become sort of a museum. Only very few groups were allowed to visit the flat every month though and the waitlist was long.

“Here is the chair Sherlock Holmes used and this is John Watson's.”

“God, this skull! It's not…”

“No,” David soothed the young man with the red face. “Sherlock brought it into this flat when they moved in. Nobody knows its history. It's real for sure but it's not John's.” Actually John's skull wouldn't have looked that complete… He refrained from saying that loud.

“So… What happened here?”

David nodded. “It was a summer day, August the third. A hot summer day. What we do know is that John Watson had worked in the clinic in the morning and came home around two-thirty, an hour before he had planned to come back due to not feeling well like his colleagues said. Sherlock was here and Mrs Hudson said she had also heard another man's voice, but they spoke so quietly that she couldn’t say who it was and she wasn’t even sure he was still there when the doctor came back. There was an argument when he arrived in the flat, so much we do know. Mrs Hudson was about to go upstairs when her phone rang. She went back into her flat but there was nobody on the line when she answered. Everything was quiet upstairs again so she went doing grocery shopping.” David looked around and smiled when he saw that they were all hanging at his lips. They must have read about this story and seen the gruesome pictures, but standing in this flat and hearing it was something else than reading it on the internet. The atmosphere of such places was just… unsettling. Even for him who had seen it a dozen times. “She made tea and went upstairs, finding the door open. She dropped the tray when she saw the blood. It was everywhere. And before she hurried downstairs to call the police, she saw John lying in the middle of the living room, his skull smashed in.”

“Damn… She didn’t check if he was really dead?”

“I saw the pictures, man, there wasn't any doubt,” a young bloke with tousled black hair told him.

“He's right. She saw that he could hardly be alive. And of course the police came with an ambulance.”

“And Sherlock was not there.”

David shook his head. “No. But a lot of the blood in the flat was his blood. John Watson had bruises on his hands as if he had fought against someone. Or attacked him.”

“So… John attacked Sherlock and Sherlock killed him and ran away?”

“You're forgetting the mysterious other man.”

“The brother who died a few days later,” the black-haired man said smugly.

“They'd known each other for years, why should they have got in such an argument?” an attractive redhead in a denim shirt said with a shake of her head.

David cleared his throat to get their attention back. “Yes, Sherlock had a brother. He was found dead in his office a few days later. But he died of a natural reason, a heart-attack. He was a big-wig in the government and the public only learned then that he was Sherlock's brother. His blood wasn't found at the crime scene. He had no injuries. So it wasn't him, in all probability.”

“John caught Sherlock with a secret lover and got jealous,” someone threw in full of conviction.

“Oh please. He said again and again he's not gay. He had a wife and kid for God's sake. I can't hear that theory anymore.”

David nodded. “It was a very popular theory. But we shouldn’t forget that there was no weapon and Sherlock had lost a lot of blood. Okay, perhaps he took the knife or whatever had injured him with him. But why?”

“So what – this mysterious third man killed John and kidnapped Sherlock after attacking him?”

David nodded. “DI Lestrade was convinced that this was what happened. But they never found out who this man was; they weren’t even sure he was still here when John came, remember that, and nobody's ever heard from Sherlock again.”

“What about the little girl?” a young woman asked.

“John's sister Harriet took her and moved with her to the United States.”

“It's creepy here,” someone mumbled, and David had to agree.

This had been a place where people had come for getting help. They might have wanted to know what had happened to their missing daughter; they had felt stalked by someone they couldn’t see; there had been mysteries in their lives they didn’t find an explanation for, whatever. And Sherlock and John had helped them as well as they could, and even though Sherlock had been not the nicest of people he had done a very good job at solving those people's cases and helping the police, too.

And then violence lashed out on the people in this flat. A father of a three-year-old girl had lost his life and a man famous for his intellect and cunningness had disappeared forever.

It was a sad place, David thought. And he wondered if anyone would ever find out what had happened to the genius that was Sherlock Holmes.

### A Place Far, Far Away

Sherlock smiled when he heard steps behind him, muffled by the sand. “Back from shopping?”

“Yup. Brought you something nice.”

Sherlock turned around and whistled. “A cocktail? 'Sex On The Beach'? Do you want to tell me something with that?”

Mycroft smiled. “No, my intentions are totally innocent.”

Sherlock snorted. “I totally believe that. Well, we're on the beach. We're all alone. The sun is going down.” He clinked glasses with Mycroft and drank from the excellent beverage. His brother had turned into a veritable bartender over the past two years.

There wasn’t much hair left on Mycroft's head so he had shorn it off almost completely, and some white hairs had appeared in Sherlock's short black hair; not so much that it was visible but they were there. He didn’t care. He didn’t meet any people apart from the shop-owners on the other side of the small island, the part where the tourists were. He hardly went there, and if he did, he was wearing a cap that hid almost everything of his face. He couldn’t do anything about his prominent cheekbones but his face wasn't pale anymore. Like his body, it was tanned, and he had gained lots of muscles over the past years. He looked good, apart from the scar on his forehead which was concealed by the cap perfectly, but he didn’t look like Sherlock Holmes.

He smiled when he looked at his brother's long, freckled legs in the rather short shorts. Nobody of their previous life would recognise him in these clothes. Gone were the suits and the ties and the responsibilities.

Sometimes he did ask him, _'Do you regret it?'_

And Mycroft would immediately shake his head. _'I regret nothing.'_

Sherlock himself didn’t regret that he had eloped with his brother. He didn’t regret that Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, didn’t exist anymore.

But he often dreamt of John as he had been _before_. Of Rosie. Of Mary giving him a look full of disappointment and grief_. 'You've made a vow, Sherlock,'_ she would say with her huge eyes staring at him. _'And then you let them down and took the life of Rosie's father, of our John.'_

_'It wasn’t like this!' _Sherlock would scream in his dream, tears running down his cheeks. _'I've never meant for this to happen.'_

And Mycroft would wake him up and soothe him and hold him, telling him it was all right.

But of course it wasn't. For him, yes. But John… He had killed his best friend. Sometimes it felt so unreal as if this had been a dream as well. But it hadn't. It hadn't even taken five minutes to end his life and to turn his own and Mycroft's life upside down.

He could still see John's disbelieving look when he had entered their flat, which had turned into wrath and disgust a moment later when he had stared down at them. What had happened next he had almost completely erased from his memory; he only saw flashes from it when he was dozing off sometimes. Back then he had only truly woken up when Mycroft had joined him here a few days later. Since then, they hadn't been separated for a single day and they didn’t plan to ever do that.

He felt a bit tipsy after finishing his tasty cocktail. And now he was in the mood for some cock or tail or whatever. He got up from the rock he'd been sitting on with Mycroft next to him, walking towards the sea. “Coming?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

His brother's pale-blue eyes were sparkling in the fading light. “I'm planning to,” he smirked, making Sherlock laugh.

Mycroft caught him when he had just waded into the warm, clean water. His strong arms embraced him from behind, his cock pressing against Sherlock's arse.

It was safe here. This part of the island was not accessible for anyone but them. It was their property.

Sherlock had never known how rich his brother was until they had to 'die' and disappear, using new names, new identities. His smart brother had been prepared so Sherlock had gone to this paradise immediately after the incident, his injuries being treated in the private jet.

Five people knew. Anthea. The doctor. The small crew. That was all and none of them would ever talk. They had been rewarded generously. Mycroft hadn't made his fortune by running the country, no, he'd had a way with the stock exchange. Neither of them would ever have to work again but Mycroft sometimes did some business online under his new name just for fun. He gave lots of the money he earned away for charity.

For how long would Sherlock be able to do basically nothing but being with his brother? Not forever, certainly. But there were ways to occupy his brain, ways that wouldn’t give them away. Mycroft would organise it when Sherlock was ready. For now he was fine with the way it was. Fine except for the dreams. But these dreams were always gone when he felt his brother's lips on his. When he felt the weight of his body on him. Mycroft always made love to him after these dreams.

And he did it now, in the ocean, Sherlock's legs curled around his waist, Mycroft's strong arms holding him in the water. It hurt a bit when Mycroft entered him as there was no lubrication but the water. But Mycroft's rich pre-come eased the way and he was gentle. He was always gentle.

Sherlock's arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, feeling him deep inside, his lips nibbling at Mycroft's neck, his teeth playfully biting his earlobe. The waves crashed around them and Sherlock grinned when he thought about the fish that had to surround them. When they made love here during the day, he could even see them swimming next to them, and Mycroft used to joke about having an interested audience.

They had left the world of the goldfish behind. England was now struggling with political changes that had gone rather wrong. Mycroft would sit in front of his laptop and shake his head, frowning. But it wasn't his fight anymore. He had chosen to 'die' and to hell with a world that would never accept them.

Sherlock sighed when he came, his come mingling with the water, and the constrictions of his muscles strangled Mycroft's orgasm out of him, making him spill hot fluid deep inside him.

When they both had regained their breath, they kissed, deeply, passionately. They'd had to go to the other side of the world to find this – peace, freedom, the possibility to live their love. Sherlock enjoyed it; he loved this place but he wished it had not had to come to this, not in this way.

But sometimes things went out of control. Sometimes one life had to end so two lives could thrive. And there was no life for them in a world where a love so pure and genuine was forbidden and caused reactions that had to be answered accordingly.

“We'll always have this,” he whispered into his brother's ear, a slight question in his tone.

Mycroft squeezed his waist. “Always, little brother.”

A long time ago he had told Sherlock, _'I was there for you before. I'll be there for you again. I'll always be there for you.'_

He had proven that this was the truth. Pure and simple.


End file.
